


Out Of Place

by Owlix



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Apologies, Class Issues, Forgiveness, Gen, Hugs, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Short, long-term ramifications of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 13:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7894378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlix/pseuds/Owlix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terminus doesn't know where he is, or why he's here, but he knows Megatron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out Of Place

Terminus didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know by what miracle he’d been restored to full functioning – his legs repaired, yes, but his internal mechanisms too, and someone had even _cleaned_ him, he hadn’t been truly clean since he’d been _forged_ – He didn’t know who all these people were – all obviously of different classes, all speaking to each other so easily, mixing so casually – and didn’t understand why they were behaving this way.

But Terminus knew _Megatron_ , even in this strange place. Even though he’d been rebuilt – another thing that didn’t make sense at all.

Megatron’s embrace still felt the same. It was disorienting to hold him this way, while standing under his own power. It had been a very long time.

“I lost my way,” Megatron said quietly into the side of Terminus’ helm. His frame was faintly shaking. After a moment, he went still and limp. Terminus held him up.

Megatron smelled wrong. Like spilled fuel, like something burning. Not a hint of rock or nucleon or the caustic solvent of the underground showers. He was spattered with spilled fuel. Not all of it seemed to be his own.

The rest of the mechs were speaking to each other. Talking and arguing. The two sports cars had paint jobs that implied a very high class, or at least a lot of money. The purple mech in the corner looked military. And Terminus was sure that tall bruiser was a cop. No one spoke to him or to Megatron. That was fine and right; they didn’t belong here. They should leave.

Terminus tried to take a step; Megatron stirred and clung to him, saying something that was lost among the noise.

“Shh,” Terminus said. “Come with me.”

Megatron went silent. He did not let go. Terminus began to move towards the door anyway, half-dragging him along. He didn’t know where he was going; just _away_. Somewhere private. Somewhere that wasn’t here.

The doctor stopped him. Terminus stood still and waited; whatever services this doctor wanted to offer, he was sure they couldn’t afford any of them. Maybe this was who had fixed him. Maybe he wanted payment for the services he’d already provided.

“Is he all right?” the doctor asked, nodding his head towards Megatron.

The words took Terminus a moment to parse; he hadn’t expected to be asked any questions that didn’t involve payment.

“Yes,” Terminus said, too overwhelmed by all the strangeness to speak with the proper deference. “I’ve seen him far worse than this.”

The doctor seemed to find something about that amusing. “Agreed,” he said. “I’ll see to him tomorrow.”

Terminus wouldn’t have any more money tomorrow than he had now, but he couldn’t find the words to argue. When the doctor went back to ignoring him, he dragged Megatron stumbling into the hall.

Megatron’s hands worked against his back, adjusting their grip as they slipped. He was exhausted. Terminus had seen him get this way before. Ignoring his own limits, pushing himself too far, and this was the result. Megatron muttered something, a repeated whisper that didn’t resolve itself into words.

“Shh,” Terminus said again, pulling him along. He pushed doors open as he went, looking for a quiet place. “You’re fine. We’re fine. Messatine is behind us.”

He found a closet. Big enough for the two of them. Out of the way. Enclosed, and poorly lit. Good enough. He lowered himself down, pulling Megatron down with him. Megatron’s grip slipped and faltered, but he held on anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Megatron said. He was shaking again. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh.”

But Megatron had run through whatever reserve of self control remained to him. He shuddered. His bright optics closed. He clung tighter. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry  _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I–_ ”

Terminus had no idea what he was going on about. “Shh,” he said, holding him tighter. “Shh. I forgive you.” 

 


End file.
